Again - Delay
by Dante Morose
Summary: Bonus sequel to "Again – Reverse" in which Truth has a problem and Mustang makes it worse.
1. Delay

**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA or the words and their definition. Credit goes to Arakawa and the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Like usual.

 **Secondary disclaimer:** I know that Truth, as the equivalent of God in the FMA universe, is omniscient, but just like in "Coat Tails" I added personality for reading entertainment. Please forgive my creative liberties.

Enjoy!

* * *

Delay **:** to stop, detain, or hinder for a time

* * *

Truth blinked.

The Gate was open.

Truth blinked again, stepped back, and canting its formless head as though that might fix the problem.

Still open.

It, being Truth, knew all, and as such it knew that this was definitely not supposed to happen.

Truth summoned the Philosopher's Stone with a thought. It appeared in Truth's hand, glowing red with the souls of a thousand humans. If Truth really wanted to fix the Gate the Stone had to leave in one form or another.

Luckily, Truth had a plan.

Edward Elric, the pipsqueak alchemist.

Somewhere in the sprawling streets of Central, Amestris he still had fragments of shadow hands clinging to his ankles, linking him to the faulty equation performed in a grieving husband's basement. Invisible to the mortal eye, the shadow hands stretched between the Gate and Ed's feet, connecting them like a string, or a bungee cord depending on how you looked at it. If Ed could enter Truth's realm with no payment, then Truth could use the Philosopher Stone to pay for his time here before throwing him back out. Little by little, Ed would tug the Gate shut both literally (via shadow hands) and equivalently (fulfilling the exchange by using the Stone).

In all its history of exchanges with mankind, this would easily be the most elaborate. Still, there was no easy way to go about fulfilling an exchange where two factors were unaccounted for.

Now all Truth needed was a way to get Ed into his realm with nothing to exchange. Truth would be kidding itself if it said there was a plethora of options. There was only one.

Death.

But who said Ed had to enter willingly?

Truth leaned its formless head on Ed's flesh hand and gazed below at the streets of Central. In the space of a second, it found Ed helpless in a weathered shed. Just outside the door, his foolish colonel removed a pistol from its holster.

Hmm… Truth could use this.

Truth sat straight and grinned slowly. It prepared a time equation to fit the situation and pinned a reset factor on the weapon.

If Ed died tonight, all would be well, but Truth's plan depended on Mustang's gun.

And that was Truth's greatest mistake.

* * *

(The next day…)

Mustang felt his eyes drying from the intensity of his stare, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.

It was just a gun. A weapon for the times his gloves couldn't suffice; a mechanical back up purchased and worn at Hawkeye's insistence; an object of no consequence if he never used it.

It lay on his desk, bullets strewn before him like canisters of death. A gun was no more powerful than the person wielding it, and he doubted this rescue mission would come to that. So why couldn't he pick it up? The very thought of _touching_ it sent a shiver of revolution through him.

"Colonel," Hawkeye was at his side. They needed to leave immediately. He had no time to dawdle over illogical emotion. Ed's life was at risk here, and though Mustang had no doubt Ed would have already punched a hole through his so-called captor's gut, the knowledge did nothing to quell the unease stirring in his latent memory.

Hawkeye waited, and he felt confusion meld into her calculating gaze as his fingers curled with hesitation over the weapon.

"Sir," she lowered her voice so the rest of the team couldn't hear. "Are you alright?"

No. Something was very, very wrong. He felt dizzy – lighter than air yet weighted down with a leaden foreboding that if he chose to pick up his gun now blood was already on his hands.

"Roy?"

This was silly. He was only feeling thrown off because of Ed's attitude this morning. The suspicious banter. The deadpan tone. The golden eyes shooting wide in fear and anger when they rose to meet Mustang's.

" _We've got a mission to finish."_ Finish? What did he mean by that?

Hawkeye reached over and finished slotting the bullets into the magazine, secured it in the gun, and offered Mustang the handle.

"We shouldn't keep them waiting."

Mustang blinked and tears washed in to moisten his eyes. Uck. He couldn't let Hawkeye get the wrong idea. In a not-so-subtle motion, he wiped the wetness from around his eyes and blinked hard. He still didn't want to touch the pistol, but they didn't have time for him to source the reason for his off-balance emotions.

He firmly gripped the handle and took it from Hawkeye.

Déjà vu stole his breath.

"Let's go."

* * *

"Again – Delay" was meant to be a bonus one-shot, but I split it into chapters so they're all on the short side. Sorry.

Also…betcha didn't guess that little detail in the first chapter of "Again – Reverse" would be important. Y'know, the one about Ed shaking his feet as though feeling shadow hands still wrapping around his ankles. I'd go back and read that part if I were you. It's in the first section if you're interested.

Updates on Monday.

-Dante


	2. Mutable

**Disclaimer:** I still own nothing.

Enjoy.

* * *

Mutable **:** capable of change or of being changed

* * *

Truth wasn't worried.

Truth _couldn't_ worry.

Truth was omnipotent, omniscient, and wise and not at all capable of making mistakes.

So _why_ did Truth feel like it had made a terrible oversight?

Two weeks had past, the Philosopher Stone was dimmer and the Gate was that much closer to closing. Well, there wasn't a noticeable difference, but the change was there.

As expected, Ed was upset, but if he stopped to analyze the situation, he might have realized he had a chance to restore his brother _and_ his limbs with no cost to either of them. But with the hectic scramble Ed placed himself in every repeat rational logic seemed to be the last thing on his mind.

Truth had to speak for himself, though, and it _wasn't_ concerned. Just… apprehensive. In solving its own problems with the incomplete human transmutation, it had forgotten a simple truth: When dealing with an equation with unaccounted factors, the equation needs to be readjusted too.

When preparing the time equation, Truth hadn't accounted for Mustang needing to touch the reset point every day. It shouldn't have mattered, but time was bending backward, and the difference was now noticeable.

Mustang was changing – no, _reacting –_ to the pivot point of the universe, and it was altering _him_.

Again Truth reassured itself that it could not make mistakes. And again Truth wondered what would happen if Mustang connected the pieces slipping through the numbers in Truth's unalterable calibration.

 _If_ Mustang lasted that long.

* * *

"Um, Ed?" Havoc hesitated. "That's _ice cream_. You know it's got milk in it, right?"

"Shh!" Al hushed. "Don't spoil it for him."

Mustang only stared.

Did headaches cause hallucinations, or was the whole world going mad?

Ed glanced at his bewildered expression and practically _cackled_ as if he had scored higher than him in some unknown game. Perhaps he had because all Mustang felt in response was a slight bristle and the flick of his tongue as he reminded Ed he had a mission to do.

Ed's joviality dropped, and he looked away.

For some reason that action set off a dozen alarm bells in the back of Mustang's mind. He watched the Ed's red coat tails slip out the office door, Alphonse clanging after him. The usual lackadaisical aura in the office settled back into place within minutes, but for some reason Mustang wished he hadn't said a word.

Three hours later he realized why.

… … … …

Mustang watched Ed sleep on the couch.

It wasn't creepy. Not at all. Nor was it unusual for him to wonder if Ed liked chocolate ice cream.

He quietly set Ed's newest mission on the edge of his desk for later. Originally he had planned to use it as a means to gauge how much the mission in Rejo had affected him; to see how long of a break Ed needed – removal from active duty or just a month to vacation in Resembool with his brother.

It was clear all Ed needed at the moment was time to breathe, and though he had been loath to show his exhaustion in front of Mustang, the slightest twinge of petty revenge twinkled in those golden eyes as he drifted to sleep. Ed's snores were _loud_ , but for some reason, hearing Ed _breathing_ was more comforting than irritating.

Mustang didn't get the chance to issue the mission later.

He didn't need to.

… … … …

If Mustang had glasses, he would have been looking over their rims, but as it was, he just gave Armstrong a flat stare.

"He was gone when I got there," Armstrong confessed. "Perhaps he decided on his own to start the mission."

They were in the cafeteria. Noon had long since passed, and Mustang's patience with it.

Edward had returned from his mission _hours_ ago. It wasn't that the colonel needed the report immediately, but a strange concern had him impatient to see his youngest subordinate. It was a strange contrast to the usual. Whenever he had the desire to see the little shrimp, it was either for his own amusement (to see how red Ed's face would get before he blew up) or to (and he would never admit it) determine there were no injuries he was hiding from his brother. Ed hated the white walls of the hospital, and would do almost anything to stay out of them. It wasn't unlikely that Ed had been injured during the past mission, and today wouldn't be the first time he skipped a report to avoid Mustang's eye.

But this feeling was different than before. Less concern for Ed then it was for himself. He felt like an exhausted parent. One who was tired of picking up their toddler's blocks and wanting to keep an eye on the child so he didn't topple the pile and make a mess again.

Ed was up to something, and the quieter he was, the more suspicious Mustang grew.

"What about Al?" Mustang tried, kneading his brow as a headache formed in his temple.

Armstrong shook his head. "No sign of him either. They've both gone. Is anything wrong?"

Mustang waved him off. "No, thank you for the help."

"I wish I could have done more." Armstrong left.

So much for Mustang's back-up plan. When Ed hadn't reported on time, Mustang had enlisted Armstrong's aid. After all, there was nothing like a muscular bear hug to get you motivated in the morning.

Hawkeye suggested, "He's probably gone out with Alphonse."

"Or hiding from you to get some sleep," Havoc chimed in.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Breda added.

"Or the last."

"Maybe…" Mustang conceded.

The intercom buzzed, loud and obnoxious overhead.

"RED ALERT. EMERGENCY EVACTUATION. FIRE IN EASTERN BUILDING. EVACUATE THROUGH THE FRONT GATE IMMEDIATELY. RED ALERT. EMERGENCY EVACUATION…"

"Eastern building?"

Just their luck, and Mustang knew exactly who to blame.

Fullmetal.

He hated to use the parent analogy, but the knowledge was almost instinctual. Whatever had happened, it was Ed's fault.

The evacuation was hardly stressful, none of the feet racing heart pounding action that one might expect following the announcement of a fire evacuation warning. Mustang and his team made it out within ten minutes, and filtered away from the building with the rest of the crowd as alchemists proficient in water alchemy aided the fire trucks to stop the raging fire encompassing the east building.

And not ten yards away, Ed stood looking over his handiwork. He watched with an incredulous expression as black smoke billow from the windows. Shattering crashes and bangs exploded from glass cases and armory lockers. His actions were a death warrant, but he stared numbly as though he couldn't believe it was real.

If Mustang wasn't mistaken, he heard the huff of a laugh underneath Ed's breath.

"Fullmetal!" he barked.

Ed jumped. He turned slowly. His eyes widened a notch, but he gave his best impression of a nonchalant shrug. "Guess now they have space to build that larger office you've been wanting."

Mustang could have done so many things in that moment, but with the eyes of a crowd overlooking his every move, he only narrowed his gaze. The look should have been sharp and unyielding – Ed had committed a major offence – but somehow all Mustang could manage was a disapproving scowl.

 _Where are my gloves?_ His look demanded.

 _Um…_ He edged forward and dropped a torn glove in Mustang's hand.

Mustang stared.

What had Ed _done_ to it?

Ed backed up a few steps. The shadow of a grin flickered under his tired eyes. "I'll, aim better next time."

Mustang's hand instinctively jerked for his spare pair of gloves, irritation finally winning first place in the emotional category. His hand brushed against his gun as he moved.

Ed's eyes shot wide. "Or not!" He swiveled and scampered through the evacuees to put at least a thousand or so people between himself and the fuming colonel.

Breda helpfully pointed to the smoking roof of Central Command. "He's lucky it's raining."

Mustang wanted to scream.

… … … …

The next day, Mustang guarded his gloves with hawkish intensity.

"Colonel?"

" _Mine_."

"Really, sir?"

… … … …

Truth watched.

Down where mortal lives crawled on, Ed was teasing the Colonel. His lips quirked and Mustang nursed a growing headache. Banter went back and forth like a tennis match, both waiting for the other to drop the ball.

Humans were so entertaining, and Truth wouldn't be ashamed to admit Ed was more interesting than most. He could be soft for his brother in one moment and harsh with the colonel in the next. He had the concentration to exclude everything but his task, and yet still managed to get hung up about details – like milk. Or his height.

Ed's eye twitched, and he leaned forward. Truth glanced to Mustang for the return, and faithful to his role in this drama, he shot back a half-hearted jibe.

And that was when Truth noticed it. It peered more closely at Mustang, closing its infinite perception onto just his face. No, _faces_.

If Truth wasn't incapable of getting drunk he might have passed the image off with that, but as it was Truth was seeing double. There were t _wo_ Mustangs sitting within each other on that office chair. No, three. Four? Five?!

Mustang, tag-along in the equation of life, was fragmenting across space and time. And like cards in a deck, they all had different faces.

Anxious, Truth summoned the Stone. It was still large enough that Ed could go another weekful of Mondays before it evaporated into useless powder. Truth glanced back to Mustang.

This wasn't good.

* * *

A fast sequence of days mentioned in the original but not expanded. I've got company over so I'm not doing any last minute editing. If there are horrible mistakes or inconsistencies and jumps in the writing, that's probably why.

Oh, and I have a deviantart now if y'all are interested: dantemorose . deviantart .c om ?rnrd = 217983

-Dante


	3. Illusion

Yesterday was Memorial Day. I'm sorry. I should have warned you this chapter was going to be a day late.

* * *

Illusion **:** a pattern capable of reversible perspective

* * *

Truth sighed.

There was no denying it.

Mustang had become increasingly warped in both personality and reason. Although he didn't know it, the taxing weight of holding his pistol was wearing down his core. Before he was snappish and moody. Now he was even more so. But that didn't even account for the added probability of recalling memories from previous repeats.

Truth turned over the Philosopher Stone.

Before long, Ed and Mustang would have lost so much of themselves that the resets might change, and with that shift, a higher chance not to happen at all. After all, if Mustang remembered or Ed divulged, the rogue alchemist might never lay a hand on Ed, thus making the involvement of Mustang's pistol unnecessary.

There would go Truth's brilliant plan along with Mustang's mental stability. (Not to mention an unfinished time calculation meant to complete with the end of the Philosopher Stone. Why did Truth do this to itself?)

But there wasn't an alternate solution. What started as a human mistake was now Truth's massive dilemma, and Truth wasn't the only one running out of time.

* * *

Mustang hated this.

Hate, hate, hated it, and he _wasn't_ petty for saying so. Everyone had a right to his own opinion, and this was his – not that he would say it out loud.

"First, he steals my alcohol." Mustang shouted into the rain. " _Then_ he runs into Central drunker than Havoc after a break-up." Mustang practically growled, "And now it's RAINING."

Or maybe it was better to get it out of his system. That way he wouldn't strangle the pipsqueak when they found him.

"It's probably not what you think," Al weaved his fingers together anxiously. "Ed's not normally like this."

Havoc grinned dangerously, "I sure wish I could've seen him. What did the last report say again?"

"'The Fullmetal Alchemist was seen rampaging through the aisles in Fred's Footware declaring himself president of the "I Hate Milk" campaign'," Falman quoted.

"Oh, Brother," Al shook his head with a worried sigh.

"Looks like we've got a new drinking buddy," Breda elbowed Havoc and they giggled conspiratorially.

Mustang gritted his teeth beneath a perfect mask of calm. A manhunt for their own alchemist. It wasn't exactly how he'd imagined the day would go. Then to top it off, there was an itch in his brain – and didn't _that_ feel familiar? – a mental itch that could only be scratched by figuring out why it was there in the first place.

Mustang _hated_ Mondays.

He was drenched, chasing a drunk insomniac, and fighting the urge to scratch his skull till he bled or the tingling stopped. While normally the colonel did a fine job keeping himself in line, the look Hawkeye was giving him suggested she saw right through his mask.

 _You're frazzled, sir._

 _Am not._

 _Maybe you should sit this one out._

 _I'm going to kill him._

 _You don't want to do that. Think of all the paperwork that would cause._

"Fuery will keep screening calls and see what he can do to avoid a public reprimand," Hawkeye reminded.

Mustang nodded. He could get through this day without incinerating someone. He really could. _Think of the paperwork._ He shuddered.

"We'll split up, cover more ground that way." He assigned everyone a different street, explaining that speed was key. The faster they corralled Ed, the sooner Mustang could take some more aspirin for this horrible headache.

"What about me?" Al asked, not missing that his name had been purposely left out.

While Al _was_ their best chance for finding Ed quickly, Mustang had his mind on other matters. Like how Ed would kill him if Al ran into that rogue alchemist running around the city. That was another problem Mustang had to take care of. Sometimes being a colonel wasn't worth the effort.

"You can come with me," Hawkeye quickly reassured, and Mustang passed her a grateful smile.

"Meet here in an hour to report."

… … … …

He should have made it a half hour.

Mustang should have known better than to hope someone else would find Ed. He was gifted with running into trouble, most commonly in the form of a golden haired genius with a love of pranks and distasteful fashion.

And there he was. He could see Ed's familiar red coat blaring like a beacon. It was on the ground, folded around him like an oversized blanket.

Mustang's heart hammered as he approached. He might be grateful to have found Ed so quickly if not for _where_ Ed was laying.

He was in a phone booth, and he wasn't moving.

It would be unfair to call Mustang's dislike of phone booths a phobia. His best friend had died in one – that gave him the right to call the anxious reaction whatever he liked. But whatever the label, it didn't stop him from panicking. His stomach flopped in nauseating cartwheels, and his head spun till he was lightheaded.

There was something so very wrong with the way the toe of Ed's ridiculous platform boot poked outside the door. The way his head bent awkwardly into his chest, and the chilling lack of movement as he lay silently on his stomach.

 _Please don't be dead._

The door was slightly ajar, but Mustang couldn't bring himself to touch it. It was as though, if he opened this door here and now, he could never come back to this moment in time. The apprehension he felt reminded him of his service in the Ishvalan war. The image of countless lives burned beyond recognition flickered across his vision. Staring into the faces of those innocent Ishvalan children, he'd seen himself for who he was.

And he couldn't deny it.

Mustang threw open the door. Ed was lying inside, one hand stretched up and grasping the phone as it hung limply from the cord. His face was hidden under a layer of loose blond bangs, and at first glance it seemed his chest was entirely still.

"Fullmetal?" Mustang called, softer than he meant to.

Ed didn't move.

 _Murderer._

"Edward."

 _Disappointment. Failure._

Mustang dropped to his knees, trembling. He turned Ed over.

 _No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try to redeem yourself, you can't change a thing._

But as he pressed two fingers to Ed's neck to his eyes fluttered open.

"Ed!" Cool relief flooded Mustang's veins leaving him shaky and breathless.

He was alive. He was _alive_.

"Fullmetal–" he started to ask him what he had been thinking to even _start_ this whole mess, but Ed panicked instantly.

His eyes shot wide as he scrambled away. With his back pressed against the glass of the opposite wall, he quivered. "Stay back."

"Ed?"

"Stay _back_."

Mustang changed his mind about the initial question and reverted to the original goal. "We have to get you back to Base."

"No. Stay away from me." Ed's gaze wobbled. His head too.

Great. Ed was still out of it. And again, of course Mustang was the one to find him. The rush of relief watered down to weariness. Mustang had made a lousy mistake. If he had been thinking straight, he would have brought Al with him.

He sighed and stepped closer. Ed curled tighter, nearly disappearing in his red coat. Mustang lowered himself to the ground and eased against the opposite glass pane. In normal circumstances he wouldn't have even considered this, but his heart was still doing jumping jacks as it came down from the initial scare. Besides, it felt _so good_ to just sit down. When had he gotten so tired?

"I'm just going to sit over here then until you decide to come back with me."

"I won't," Ed glared over his knees.

"Why not?" he humored.

"You'll kill me." Ed deadpanned.

…Mustang couldn't even feign surprise. Because it was true, wasn't it?

Something felt, well, not right, but _familiar_ about that line of thought. It was the same feeling he got every time he went to load his gun. It was the same dizzying sensation of déjà vu he got looking into Ed's eyes now, and it was the same as the itch prickling in his brain.

The itching began to fade, and with it, the headache intensified, crossing the line into a migraine. Mustang lowered his head into his hands. "What do you mean, Fullmetal?" he murmured.

Ed didn't seem to hear him. "And Truth'll send me back." he snarled, eyes alive. "Again and again and _again_!" He pounded the ground with his automail fist, and a few chips of concrete flaked under the force. His demeanor softened. "But if it's jus' me then I guess it's okay."

Mustang watched Ed shift. To say he was uncomfortable with the way Ed held no value to his life but for the fixing of others' was an understatement, but this was Ed. Though he didn't have the same level of conviction Ed had – _no one_ could – he knew what it was like. Mustang would die a thousand times if it would save the people he couldn't protect.

Ed didn't seem to think too much of it, changing topic abruptly with: "I've never done this before."

"I should hope not."

"'S nice to do some'n different."

"This had better not become a regular occurrence," Mustang warned half-heartedly. His emotions were slipping into an empty void, and he just watched them fall to oblivion. He didn't even feel like himself anymore. It was as though he was watching himself through some sort of screen, becoming more distant from emotion as the barrier grew thicker.

It was exhausting. Talking to Ed was exhausting. It was like Ed was soaking the energy from him, taking pieces of Mustang to stabilize himself. But that didn't make any logical sense.

"I talked to Winry," Ed babbled.

Then again, nor did Edward suddenly running off with his alcohol.

"Oh?" Mustang closed his eyes and willed this day to be over.

"I think she hates me."

"Hm." Mustang wished he had some aspirin to cover up this horrible migraine. …that he no longer had.

"She hung up on me. Again."

The pulsing in his mind was gone. Mustang sat straighter and watched Ed bore holes into his boots with his eyes.

"'M tired of these repeats," Ed confessed quietly.

"Repeats…" Mustang repeated. His own voice seemed to echo in his ears.

They were in this together, each playing a separate part of a larger plan. Both victims of ignorance, but operating with different knowledge. Ed was pushing forward a train-wreck speed, and it was all Mustang could do to keep up. In the end it wouldn't matter. He was only lagging in the loop for one reason.

… … … …

Mustang was getting wrapped into the reset point, the calculation spreading to encompass him like the shadow hands the clung to Ed's ankles. Time was folding over them both, layering Mustang's knowledge, and risking the temperament of the reset point.

This was all so very wrong.

Truth watched from his realm of white and waited for Mustang's gun to trigger the reset again.

* * *

-Dante


	4. Remedy

**REALLY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:** So you know that I'm a writer, but did you also know that I'm learning to draw too? Well, teaching myself. Point is, since I'm having a difficult time writing AND drawing, I decided it wasn't bad idea to combine the two. That being the decision, I have committed to doing one drawing for each of my fanfics. That includes this one. Please support me in this, and hopefully you'll enjoy this fanart project as well. (And yes, this means that all my old stories get fanart as well. Be on the look out! More details on my profile.)

My DA: dantemorose. deviantart (. com)/ ? rnrd =217983

 **Fanart** for ch. 3 of "Again - Delay": dantemorose. deviantart (. com)/ art/ Too-Little-Too-Late- 684672183

* * *

Remedy **:** something that corrects or counteracts

* * *

" _I can't do this again."_

"You don't have to."

" _Promise?"_

"I promise."

He had no idea what he was committing to.

 _Ed's finger contracted on the trigger._

Wait.

" _Again."_

"EDWARD!"

 _BANG!_

.

.

.

Truth didn't say anything as Ed strode back through the Gate.

* * *

Colonel Roy Mustang could count on one hand the number of times he'd felt genuine concern for his subordinates. He had hand-picked each of them, and not only because they worked well as a team. In their own ways, they could take care of themselves without babysitting, and overall, they were low-maintenance, which was good since he required an unsightly amount of caretaking himself. (Not that anyone but Hawkeye did anything about it.)

So when Mustang opened his eyes to find himself once again sitting at his desk with a foggy memory of getting there, he was surprised by the inexorable rush of urgency he felt. Every beat of his heart, every breath he took, even the pounding headache in his temple – it was all consumed by one thought.

Help Edward.

With what, he didn't know, but the rush was demanding, and Mustang didn't question it for a second.

The last time he had, Hughes had ended up dead.

Mustang picked up the phone and dialed for the front desk at the dorms.

"Hello? This is Colonel Mustang. I need you to send a message to room 2B. Yes, tell him to report to my office immediately."

"Colonel, you just called them," Hawkeye noted.

Mustang glanced up. Hawkeye had stopped cleaning her gun and was looking at him with a concerned puzzlement.

He did? He didn't remember doing that.

"Yes, that's all. Thank you." Mustang replaced the phone in its cradle and gave Hawkeye a look. One that he hoped would pass as a normal smile of confidence for him. Not one of balling worry and agitation. At the opposite end of the room, the door opened. With the ever smug expression still pasted on, he turned.

Standing in the doorway like a ghost from a horror novel was Edward Elric, and the sight of him made Mustang's gut turn to ash.

He had been right to worry. Ed was _walking_ – WALKING – a speed unknown to him. Ed sauntered or ran, limped or dashed. He was a fiery ball of courageous defiance, with shoulders square and eyes on the end goal.

Mustang stared, mind grinding in overdrive trying to figure out what and why this nightmare was happening. Ed stood in front of his desk, utterly _broken_. There was only one other time in his life that he'd held that hopelessness in his eyes. Mustang had talked fire into him that time. No amount of words would fix this junk pile of scrapped emotion standing here now.

Mustang wanted to fix this. _Needed_ to, but he couldn't think of anything to say. It was like his own functionality had been stripped away, leaving him bare of rational decision. It was frustrating, and it only made his headache pulse louder.

"I need to talk to you."

Had Edward said that? His lips shaped the words, but the tone was eerie.

"Privately. It can't wait."

Mustang didn't disagree. Something was very wrong with this picture. He led them into his inner office and took a seat in his chair. Ed opted to stand, shifting from foot to foot with his gaze darting everywhere but Mustang's eyes.

"What do you need to discuss, Fullmetal?"

Mustang waited, and Ed told him. Explained everything. And for some reason Mustang's mind wandered to the image of a phone booth, with Ed slumped on the ground in one corner pounding his fist into the pavement again and again and again. And something greater stirred in his memory. Something much darker than he wanted to remember. But he had to ask. Wanted to be sure.

"So how do you die?"

Ed told him, and with his words, sealed his fate.

"You kill me."

… … … …

In his realm of white, Truth watched. It was most certainly not chewing nonexistent fingernails. No, Mustang was _not_ getting _this close_ to joining the loop by association. And why would anyone even _think_ of accusing Truth of being worried?

It knew everything would all work out fine. It was _Truth_ after all. But just like knowing the end score of a game, the replay was still intense.

Truth silently gnawed off the long fingernails of Ed's right arm; and in the distant fog of white, Al's body shook his head and wondered if Ed would figure everything out in time to save them both.

* * *

-Dante


	5. Inception

I didn't realize how pitifully short this last chapter was until I uploaded it. How sad.

* * *

Inception **:** an act, process, or instance of beginning

* * *

Mustang remembered something like this. His eyes were dry from staring, and no matter how hard he bullied himself, he couldn't bring himself to touch his gun.

Ed had run out during his report earlier, and now Mustang was preparing to enter the storm to rescue him. It all felt so familiar, yet something was different.

There was a sense of urgency like he'd never experienced. It seared a streak of conviction through him, making every action seem deliberate and important. But his hands were still shaking, and it was all because of one simple thing:

His gun.

It was a focal point of attention. He _knew_ he would shoot it tonight – and wasn't it strange that he could already see the blood on his hands? – but he couldn't shake the nightmarish image of Ed slumped against a wall, an expression of pain and betrayal engraved in his eyes and a bullet hole between his brows. It was all so vivid. It was all too real.

The vivacious clarity lit his mind with a brightness sharper than he could remember having in a long time. It allowed him to holster his gun. It stayed with him as he and Hawkeye interrogated that pathetic monster of a man, and it carried him into the fray as he struggled to amend his aim before it was too late.

Now Ed stood in his office. He'd been in the hospital three days – _sleeping_. But Mustang couldn't fault him. Behind his office door, he'd done the same.

"Fullmetal," Mustang started, then hesitated. Maybe it was water under the bridge, but Mustang couldn't let it go at that. He knew what had happened between them. Well, not quite. He had fragmented images in his memories – Hawkeye's empty body, Ed's hollow gaze, his own hands poised to shoot. There were too many details to pass off as nightmares.

He would ask Ed about all that in a minute, but first, there was one question Mustang wanted to ask.

"Do you trust me?"

He didn't know if he wanted the answer.

Ed looked up as if startled. The shock rapidly descended to suspicion before settling on weariness. He thought carefully for a moment. Mustang waited, and when Ed looked up again, the answer was in his eyes.

… … … …

Mustang left his gun in the shed that last day.

He didn't go back for it.

… … … …

Somewhere in the vast cosmic vortex of time and space where everything was white and perfect, Truth breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

-Dante


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